


The Sun is Gonna Shine Again

by raja815



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking, Feel-good, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Relaxation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raja815/pseuds/raja815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much time as Jim Kirk spends looking to the stars, when McCoy sees him smile all he can think of is good old Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sun is Gonna Shine Again

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the [Edie Brickell](http://www.lyricsmania.com/suns_gonna_shine_lyrics_edie_brickell.html) song. 
> 
> I wrote this entirely based on a revelation I had that you don't see many casual mentions of sports in slash fanfiction.

"Bones," Jim greets as the doors swish open, and his eyes are glittering like a goddamned Georgia sunrise. As much time as Jim Kirk spends looking to the stars, when McCoy sees him smile all he can think of is good old Earth.

“Evenin', Jim," he greets, and puts his data PADD aside. "Thought you might come by. You're about due for a health tonic."

"Or two," Jim agrees, and sits down in in the consultation chair.

McCoy stretches, rejuvenated, and wheels one of the examination stools over to sit beside Jim. 

"What happened to Spock?" He asks. "I was beginning to think the two of you were attached at the hip."

Jim laughs and McCoy’s fingertips tingle. Those laughs go down like smooth whiskey; all the punch with none of the burn. McCoy could knock them back all night.

"Check me for suture marks, if you like," Jim grins, with a saucy cock of his head towards the area in question. "Spock's in the labs. He's got an experiment cooking on the sediment samples from Psion III. Apparently they have a high concentration of—"

"Spare me," McCoy groans, and is rewarded with another laugh. "Anyway. Forget the sediment and sit a spell. Let's see if I can't round you up a prescription."

He keeps the Saurian brandy hidden in one of the cupboards—an empty gesture, really, since there's not an officer aboard who hasn't shared at least a glass with their good ol' country doctor—and the really hard stuff in his quarters, in the locker beneath his bunk. That’s for the hard days, the days when the Saurian just won't cut it, but there’s nothing wrong about today and the Saurian will do just fine; strong and just this side of sweet, a little nip to make the muscles go as lax as Spanish moss.

He pours it, a golden liquid not _quite_ the color of Jim's eyes (too flat, too shallow, even the in cut glass snifter) but McCoy doesn't mind. Who needs imitation; he’s got the real thing right here, Jim's eyes, bright and golden and relaxed, the practiced formality of captaincy sliding away like clouds to let the sunshine through. On his bridge, Jim is a king on a throne, but here with McCoy he's a man on a front-porch rocking chair at sunset, lord of the land but as free as a bird, mint julep in hand and sweet Georgia breeze on his face. McCoy watches the change in those eyes and feels warm in his stomach, even before he's taken his own glass in hand.

Jim chases a stray droplet with his tongue, a spot of sweet pink against the corner of his mouth, and grins when he catches McCoy staring.

"Goes down a little smoother than your last few cures,” he teases.

McCot affects a stern grimace. ”If you're talking about the Rigealean measles vaccine—"

"I was talking about the Finagle's Folly. But now that you mention it, the vaccination wasn't exactly a treat. I've never been so sore."

"You still grousing me about that little bruise? Believe me, that vaccine went down better than the alternative. Rigealean measles is a nasty thing; rash, fever, paroxysmal cough, posttussive emesis..."

"Posttussive emesis,” Jim raises his eyebrows. “Why Doctor, with that kind of talk, I'd almost think you were trying to seduce me."

A wry little half-smile twists the corner of McCoy's mouth. "Worst part is the swelling. Parotid gland, hands, feet... thighs...” With the word, McCoy rests his hand against Jim's own thigh, squeezing just enough to feel muscle beneath warm skin and tight uniform trousers. Jim's eyes drift closed and that goddamn smile, that Georgia sunrise smile, slides across his beautiful face.

"Well. Thank god you vaccinated me then."

"Least I could do. Couldn't have you swellin' up on me, now could I?" He squeezes, high up along the quadriceps, and settles into stroking, up and down, just the way he knows Jim likes it.

“I don’t mind the odd bit of swelling,” Jim murmurs, closing his eyes and meaning bad, relaxing into McCoy’s touch. There’s a comfortable silence, broken only by the slight rustle of McCoy’s hand stroking against the fabric, and the occasional clink of glassware as they sip.

"Feeling good, Jim?" McCoy asks a few moments later, because he himself certainly is. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s got the only thing in this whole universe that isn't out to get him spread out beneath his hands.

"I think I am," Jim murmurs, voice as warm as the brandy.

"Good." McCoy puts his empty glass on the desktop and his emptied hand against Jim's far leg. The posture pulls their bodies closer and McCoy can smell him: warm summer wind and Iowa cornfields. "That's real good."

He rubs, two handed now, up and down the strong, thick legs. The uniform trousers are as tight on Jim as they are loose on McCoy and the fabric warms with the friction of his hands. He squeezes broad muscle and thinks of Jim during physicals, watching his body work and sweat bead on his chest. When McCoy's eyes slide closed he sees Jim on Earth: spread out on sweet Terran soil with dust on his face and grass in his hair, bathed in hot sunshine from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.

"Bet you played football as a kid." McCoy says, picturing it so vividly he can almost smell the sweat. ”Sure didn’t get thighs like these just from sitting on a starship."

"I played a few years,” Jim answers and McCoy can hear the coy little smirk in the words. "Before I switched to wrestling."

"...Quarterback," McCoy guesses. Jim laughs. McCoy loves him for it.

"Linebacker. I loved the strategy of the game, but I never had much of an arm. You?"

"Nah, I'm too light. Baseball every summer, but I was no good at it."

He opens his eyes when he feels pressure against his arm and his gaze locks with Jim's teasing, tipsy smile as the captain’s hand circles McCoy's bicep.

"Baseball." Kirk grins. McCoy feels hot all over. "Well then. Did you like to pitch, or catch?"

"Center field," he grumbles. "Told you I wasn't any good."

Jim laughs again, really laughs, and there's that Georgia sunrise again, glowing like gold, and McCoy can't take it anymore. He bends over to kiss him, high up on his leg. The fabric is warm, its scent clean laundry and faint musky pheromones. McCoy kneels and kisses again, and again, a lingering line trailing upward, following the heat of his body. Jim shifts beneath him, slides his hand along McCoy's back and skinny shoulderblades, and McCoy exhales a sharp gush of hot breath:

“ _Goddamn._ "

McCoy moves his hands, slides them up, over, feels the bunched creases of fabric at Jim’s hips, the hem of his duty tunic and the button of his fly. He cups the hard, pulsing knot of erect cock under tight fabric and kisses Jim through the oversensitized jolt of first contact. He rubs, and Jim squeezes, and all McCoy can think of is Earth and sex and Jim and sunshine, and there's no room at all for the cold black uncertainty of space.

"Want me to do it to you?" He says, mumbling the words into the patch of fabric by his mouth, fabric gone moist from his own lips and breath. "Jim? Want me to..."

He trails off, rubbing with just the tips of his fingers until he feels Jim's hand slide over his own.

"You don't have to."

"Yeah," McCoy corrects, voice a strained chuckle. He shifts his position, rises to his knees, picks up Jim's hand, and presses it between his own thighs so that Jim can _feel_ how much he has to. "Yeah, I do."

"All right," Jim murmurs, and he squeezes and strokes until McCoy moves down and he can't reach.

The taste of him is Earth salt and clean sweat, bitter fluid and golden warmth. Jim likes it fast and that's how McCoy gives it, that's how he _wants_ to give it, rough kisses and hard swift licks before he pulls him in, swirls his tongue around the cornea and tightens his lips. He sucks. Jim gasps. He twists his lips. Jim whimpers, "oh, _Bones_ ,” and McCoy moans around Jim's prick and rips his hand away from Jim's left thigh, thrusts it into his own trousers, pulling the zipper down just enough to give himself space. He works himself and he works his friend, rocking them back and forth, in and out, building to a sweeping rush of pleasure that sweeps across them both like a breaking wave. Jim says his name again, once, twice, three times, and there isn't a spot of darkness, not one degree of chill, in all this universe or any other.

McCoy rests his face against Jim's thigh again when it's over, while they're both working to find their breath, and eventually Jim's hand skates across his hair, warm against the cooling sweat on his forehead.

"You finished too?" Jim whispers.

"Yeah," he says, his voice an exhausted little chuckle. "Couldn't wait."

He's still for another second and then McCoy feels strong hands on his shoulders, pulling him up, until they're chest to chest in the overload consultation chair and Jim is kissing him, as sweet and full of promise as a summer ripened Georgia peach.

"You have a way," he mumbles, "of making a man feel very selfish."

"It's just my physician's nature," McCoy says, and rests his head in the hollow of Jim's neck as his captain laughs. "Very open, very giving..."

"To say the least," Jim replies, and settles in as best he can, breathing deeply as he rubs the small of McCoy's back. 

It's not very comfortable, and they'll have to move soon, but for just this moment, McCoy wants to sit as still as he can manage. He wants to sit here with Jim and think about sunshine and Georgia summers and feet planted firmly on his own sweet ground.

Just now, just for this moment, he feels like he's made it back home.


End file.
